When Muhammad Ali lit the Olympic torch in Atlanta, he knew he had not been defeated by Parkinson's. His wife and caregiver, Lonnie Ali, said, "Who would have thought he was a man fighting a disease? Now people can see the real him. He still has the power to inspire people—without even opening his mouth."
Love doesn't stop when a parent, spouse, or friend gets sick. Here are remarkable stories of stepping up, sticking around, and finding joy.
By Camille Peri
Lonnie Ali was six years old, returning home from school in Louisville, Kentucky, when she saw a crowd of boys gathered around a handsome young man in a white shirt, bow tie, and black dress pants. "Look," her mother said from the doorway, "that's Cassius Clay."
Clay, who would soon win the first of three heavyweight boxing titles and change his name to Muhammad Ali, made a point of calling the shy girl over. From then on, whenever he visited his mother across the street, he would also stop by Lonnie's house. "He was like a big brother," she recalls. "I'd believe what he said before I'd believe my father. Muhammad would tell it to me the way it was."
They remained friends as he became a world champion and she went to college, earning a psychology degree and an MBA. At 17, Lonnie felt she would marry him someday—"I knew it was fate." Twelve years later, she did, becoming the boxer's fourth wife. Muhammad had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, but the diagnosis didn't faze Lonnie. "I knew the man, not the celebrity," she says. "That's who I loved. And he knew I would always be in his corner."
For a long time, the disease barely slowed him down. Lonnie was more a care partner than a caregiver, nudging him to take his medicine. But gradually, symptoms became more intrusive. A turning point came about 15 years ago during a dinner in Boston. "Muhammad went to put food in his mouth and he froze," she recalls—a temporary immobility characteristic of Parkinson's. Another was when the famously animated boxer became stone-faced. "Then I knew I had challenges to deal with," Lonnie says.
The challenges were practical, emotional, and psychological. Lonnie had to recognize her own limits. Once, overwhelmed by caring for Muhammad, raising their son, and running a business, she felt so unfocused she thought she had an attention deficit disorder. "I went to the doctor and fell asleep in the waiting room," she says. "The doctor said, 'You don't have ADD. You're sleep-deprived.'"
She also learned to accept what she couldn't control. Muhammad, still muscular from daily workouts, now walks haltingly. Once famous for his banter, he often sits in silence. "I've been with him so long, I can look at him and tell what he wants," Lonnie says.
Yet the illness can steal only so much. A quarter-century into his struggle, Muhammad takes piano lessons. Most importantly, this lifelong humanitarian still feels a mission to help others. Early on, he shied away from the spotlight. "He used to play to the camera, but the camera was no longer his friend," Lonnie says. An appearance with fellow Parkinson's sufferer Michael J. Fox changed that. "I think he thought, If Michael can do it, I can do it."
Now, Muhammad Ali doesn't care what people think. In an essay for NPR's "This I Believe," he wrote about carrying the Olympic torch at the 1996 Atlanta Games and realizing his tremors had taken over. "I heard a rumble in the stadium that became a pounding roar and then turned into deafening applause," he wrote. He understood then that Parkinson's had not defeated him.
"There's still a lot for me to learn from him," Lonnie Ali says. "Muhammad was the epitome of strength and beauty, but could someone with physical challenges really relate to him? Probably not. But now they can identify with him. We used to get letters from people with Parkinson's who wouldn't leave the house, but because they saw Muhammad out, now they go out.
"He still has that power to inspire people—without even opening his mouth."